I'm bringin' Dolce back, them other syrups don't know how to act!
Oh you clever clever Starbucks workers and your disregard for copyright laws. You crack me up. And make me coffee. I love you all.
Feel free to add in the "yeah!" to that little diddy - you know you want to!
It has been an interesting year. Now the new one's begun. New Year, new hair, new camera. Too bad school's not new. Or over. I'd been secretly wishing that we'd all just somehow magically graduate over the Christmas break, but alas, I was bereft. No such miracle occurred. At least the semester's almost over. For a while there I thought we'd be stuck forever, but with the holidays over, the end is in sight. Thank the Lord. However, I must say I'm not particularly ecstatic over the new classes either. I'm not really looking forward to English, or Bio, or Art...so pretty much everything except Psych. I'd give anything to get out of Art - I hate the constant panic that floods over you when you realize for the 9 millionth time that week that you're going to have to top yourself yet again and you just might not be able to do it. My dislike of bio should require no explanation.
It is January 7th, and I'm very close to hitting a milestone in Western culture - turning 18. It's a strange state that brands you with a particular, peculiar station. I don't think I'm as giddy about it as others are wont to be. I'm more curious about it than anything else. I wonder how I'll spend it. What will happen. What will change. What won't. What will this next year hold?
Why this curiousity? My birthdays over the past few years have been excellent indicators, predictors, precursors, whatever, of what follows in the 364 days until my next birthday. Call it a gift - no pun intended. Actually, I'd rather not have them be that way. Although, in all honesty, they're my fault anyway. Still. I gotta wonder.
Tenth grade and 16: awesome surprise party thrown by a bunch of really nice people and we watch Napoleon Dynamite. Starbucks, I recall I got Starbucks...Whatever else I remember of it is great. Lots of pieces were missed due to own stupidity and propensity to rain on my own parade (read, being a complete jackass). Spent lots of that evening, that "Swwweeeeet 16", paying penance to the porcelain god to which I had recently become accustomed to worshipping in the late hours of the night. No biggie, it can only cause gastric rupture, kidney and liver damage or failure, cardiac arrest, septic shock and death.
What this was a precursor to: more "penance", exteme screw-ups, incessant quoting of Napoleon Dynamite, the taking up of new secrets, a few stays in a town of 230 people in a place run by a few new-age hippies, and returning only to have everyone think I'd been in Manitoba, which suited be quite well. As tenth melted into eleventh, more mess-ups, a strike of sorts - that backfired, a family breaks up and lets you play monkey in the hell of the middle. What fun.
Eleventh grade and 17: go to school and have lots of very nice people say Happy Birthday! to me. I come home, get yelled at for being a jackass (I probably deserved it), and then go to the city. We come home, I get yelled at some more and e** half a p******, immediately pay penance, and continue to do so throughout the night because it's my party and I can ____ if I want to, damnit! What a great kickoff, although undoubtably it is my fault.
What this is a precursor for: More screw ups, and, a mere month and a half after that wonderful day, a nice sanitary stay in the lower level psych ward where there truly were some wackos, uncomfortable mattresses, doors they wouldn't lock, and nurses that dyed their hair colours not found in nature and watched you as you peed. This is great fun kids, you should try this at home - you'll probably have to pee a lot less due to the fact that you have a captive audience. After this, your parents will breathe a sigh of relief because you're out and they didn't like visiting you there because it's creepy. More school, more assignments, more appointments with whitecoats than ever before, grad, hot hot summers that feel as if they'll never end and let you put back on your sweatpants and hoodie in comfort. Mess ups continue, parents furrow brows, you say you're sorry, grade eleven gives way to twelfth and the race is on.
A few months into it you have your most spectacular fall from grace yet. So spectacular in fact, that your past test drives for this kamikaze mission pale in comparison. You're getting the hang of this flying just so you can fall; you like the rush. Miss school. Fight. Sleep more than ever before. Fight some more, feel like an ass because you're younger sister's a better rolemodel than you are. Sleep in waiting rooms that smell like cigarettes and old soup, every now and then summoned up from the murky depths to talk to people who spell your name wrong and wear ugly shoes. Watch yourself play a stupid game of chicken with, um, yourself, seeing who will be knocked over first - you, or, uh, you. Either way, you're screwed, right? You hit day 22 and have already temporarliy lost your mind. Someone freaks and makes you crash your plane - not into your intended target (yourself) but into a much softer, scarier place. You wake up and think, oh crap, I made it. People stare. Brows unfurl, muscles relax in parents' faces and they wait to see what you do. Seventeen and you should be smarter. So much for that. One hell of a year.
You might understand then, why I might be a little more than curious about all this. Perhaps I should get off my ass and stop watching myself - maybe I should, God forbid, actually play a role in some of this.
I still find it interesting to know what I know, and still be like, "Hmmmm...what an ingenius idea!" when things that should be an obvious no-no pop into my head. So much for becoming smarter with age.
Also interesting is how I've had this blog since June and although I have been quite honest, I've never actually been able to say what the heck is up. Weird. This is pure cowardice. Knowing other people can do it just makes it clearer. Sure, whoever might read this probably already knows a little, or a lot, but I still can't say it out loud, or type it out, to be more politically correct as you can't actually hear me.
Perhaps I'm already saying way too much as it is, but it's late and I'm tired and don't really care as I haven't blurted out too many secrets or anything of that nature, so I should be fine - no hang over effect after I publish this. At least, I hope not. I hate that. I'm not even legal yet.
Feel free to add in the "yeah!" to that little diddy - you know you want to!
It has been an interesting year. Now the new one's begun. New Year, new hair, new camera. Too bad school's not new. Or over. I'd been secretly wishing that we'd all just somehow magically graduate over the Christmas break, but alas, I was bereft. No such miracle occurred. At least the semester's almost over. For a while there I thought we'd be stuck forever, but with the holidays over, the end is in sight. Thank the Lord. However, I must say I'm not particularly ecstatic over the new classes either. I'm not really looking forward to English, or Bio, or Art...so pretty much everything except Psych. I'd give anything to get out of Art - I hate the constant panic that floods over you when you realize for the 9 millionth time that week that you're going to have to top yourself yet again and you just might not be able to do it. My dislike of bio should require no explanation.
It is January 7th, and I'm very close to hitting a milestone in Western culture - turning 18. It's a strange state that brands you with a particular, peculiar station. I don't think I'm as giddy about it as others are wont to be. I'm more curious about it than anything else. I wonder how I'll spend it. What will happen. What will change. What won't. What will this next year hold?
Why this curiousity? My birthdays over the past few years have been excellent indicators, predictors, precursors, whatever, of what follows in the 364 days until my next birthday. Call it a gift - no pun intended. Actually, I'd rather not have them be that way. Although, in all honesty, they're my fault anyway. Still. I gotta wonder.
Tenth grade and 16: awesome surprise party thrown by a bunch of really nice people and we watch Napoleon Dynamite. Starbucks, I recall I got Starbucks...Whatever else I remember of it is great. Lots of pieces were missed due to own stupidity and propensity to rain on my own parade (read, being a complete jackass). Spent lots of that evening, that "Swwweeeeet 16", paying penance to the porcelain god to which I had recently become accustomed to worshipping in the late hours of the night. No biggie, it can only cause gastric rupture, kidney and liver damage or failure, cardiac arrest, septic shock and death.
What this was a precursor to: more "penance", exteme screw-ups, incessant quoting of Napoleon Dynamite, the taking up of new secrets, a few stays in a town of 230 people in a place run by a few new-age hippies, and returning only to have everyone think I'd been in Manitoba, which suited be quite well. As tenth melted into eleventh, more mess-ups, a strike of sorts - that backfired, a family breaks up and lets you play monkey in the hell of the middle. What fun.
Eleventh grade and 17: go to school and have lots of very nice people say Happy Birthday! to me. I come home, get yelled at for being a jackass (I probably deserved it), and then go to the city. We come home, I get yelled at some more and e** half a p******, immediately pay penance, and continue to do so throughout the night because it's my party and I can ____ if I want to, damnit! What a great kickoff, although undoubtably it is my fault.
What this is a precursor for: More screw ups, and, a mere month and a half after that wonderful day, a nice sanitary stay in the lower level psych ward where there truly were some wackos, uncomfortable mattresses, doors they wouldn't lock, and nurses that dyed their hair colours not found in nature and watched you as you peed. This is great fun kids, you should try this at home - you'll probably have to pee a lot less due to the fact that you have a captive audience. After this, your parents will breathe a sigh of relief because you're out and they didn't like visiting you there because it's creepy. More school, more assignments, more appointments with whitecoats than ever before, grad, hot hot summers that feel as if they'll never end and let you put back on your sweatpants and hoodie in comfort. Mess ups continue, parents furrow brows, you say you're sorry, grade eleven gives way to twelfth and the race is on.
A few months into it you have your most spectacular fall from grace yet. So spectacular in fact, that your past test drives for this kamikaze mission pale in comparison. You're getting the hang of this flying just so you can fall; you like the rush. Miss school. Fight. Sleep more than ever before. Fight some more, feel like an ass because you're younger sister's a better rolemodel than you are. Sleep in waiting rooms that smell like cigarettes and old soup, every now and then summoned up from the murky depths to talk to people who spell your name wrong and wear ugly shoes. Watch yourself play a stupid game of chicken with, um, yourself, seeing who will be knocked over first - you, or, uh, you. Either way, you're screwed, right? You hit day 22 and have already temporarliy lost your mind. Someone freaks and makes you crash your plane - not into your intended target (yourself) but into a much softer, scarier place. You wake up and think, oh crap, I made it. People stare. Brows unfurl, muscles relax in parents' faces and they wait to see what you do. Seventeen and you should be smarter. So much for that. One hell of a year.
You might understand then, why I might be a little more than curious about all this. Perhaps I should get off my ass and stop watching myself - maybe I should, God forbid, actually play a role in some of this.
I still find it interesting to know what I know, and still be like, "Hmmmm...what an ingenius idea!" when things that should be an obvious no-no pop into my head. So much for becoming smarter with age.
Also interesting is how I've had this blog since June and although I have been quite honest, I've never actually been able to say what the heck is up. Weird. This is pure cowardice. Knowing other people can do it just makes it clearer. Sure, whoever might read this probably already knows a little, or a lot, but I still can't say it out loud, or type it out, to be more politically correct as you can't actually hear me.
Perhaps I'm already saying way too much as it is, but it's late and I'm tired and don't really care as I haven't blurted out too many secrets or anything of that nature, so I should be fine - no hang over effect after I publish this. At least, I hope not. I hate that. I'm not even legal yet.
posted by Breanne at 10:44 PM
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